Gifted (9 page)

I marched over to the stupid wheelbarrow and decided that I would first go to the stupid parking lot and pick up the stupid lumber before I would check out the
stupid bunker. But check it out I
would
. Because now more than ever I was determined that Sam Toselli and his brainless band of primates receive the full force of my revenge.

Even if it took me all day.

But it didn't take me all day. And looking back at it now, I'd like to tell you that it
had
taken all day and that I'd thought the thing through carefully, and that any holes in the scheme had been sealed watertight, but I can't. Looking back with the clear perspective only time will give, I see that chief among my shortcomings had been a tendency to be a little overimpulsive. And it was partly Anita's fault. What I'd needed right then was a best friend's loyalty, and she'd gone and treated me like dirt. No, come to think of it, she'd treated the dirt a lot better.

I pushed my way along the edge of the campground, en route to the parking lot, and I had the odd sensation of what it must be like to stagger across a lonely desert, finding certain death to one side of you and a life-giving mirage shimmering away on the other. The forest was on my left, a population of loblolly pines, yucca trees, and mixed vegetation growing dense and lush out of the fertile soil; on my right was nothing but parched beach grass and
dried-up scratchy-looking bushes that had apparently sprung to life and clawed their way out of the sand. Quite a contrast. But I hardly noticed the weird landscape at all because I was too mad. I turned fuming onto the trail leading into the forest, hardly knowing what I was doing. Anita should have known me better than that! What was the point of having a best friend if the best friend thought the worst of you all the time? There was
no point
, I decided, trudging on, and then I realized that I had no idea where in the hell I was going.

Cape Rose, as the name suggests, is a cape, “an area of land poking into a large body of water,” and the terrain of this coastal nightmare was entirely at sea level. There were no hills, no high places I could ascend to pinpoint my location besides the important sand dune system. Navigating by the stars was out, since it was just past midmorning, and in spite of my earlier confidence when I'd told Mr. Z that I knew where I was going, I wished to amend that now and just say I had roughly an approximate idea and that I would probably know the parking lot when I saw it. I cast my mind back to our arrival and could remember nothing except that I'd kept a close and suspicious eye on the Bruise Brothers the whole time and that we'd followed a woodland path of a rustic description. Now I saw that there were several paths of this kind, and they all branched off of the one I was on.

I was debating whether to just pick one or give it up and head back to camp for a compass when I heard a series of twigs snap and the distinct murmur of adolescent voices. I peered into the trees. The twig-snappers turned out to be a group of students, and they looked like they were either collecting samples of plant life or trying to catch poison ivy.

I set the wheelbarrow down and slipped on my black aviator jacket. With my arms sufficiently covered and my legs protected by my sturdy mauve corduroys, I stepped off the trail and set a course through the undergrowth, feeling certain their team leader would be able to point me to the parking lot.

The forest emitted a sweet smell of decay that made my nose run, so I breathed through my mouth, keeping my teeth jammed tightly together so as not to inhale a gnat or something. I passed scattered students along the way, and while nobody said anything to me, I received a goodly number of admiring looks. Mr. Zimmerman had been the least popular teacher in recorded history, and those looks said to me, “George, you rock!” I was an overnight success.

In the near distance stood Mr. Meltz, my Social Studies teacher, talking to assorted kids. To his left I saw an area where the forest petered out, giving way to dune grass rippling in the breeze.

Two thoughts occurred to me at once. If I approached Mr. Meltz for directions to the parking lot, I would receive its coordinates in approximate degrees of longitude and latitude, owing to the fact that Mr. Meltz couldn't answer a question simply. Mainly because he didn't know anything useful. But if I headed left, I might be looking at the very sand dune that housed the bunker of my fantasies.

I decided on the detour and proceeded in that direction, but not without first grabbing a stout walking stick in case I should lose my footing. I strolled straight past the Keep Off Dune Grass sign, bounded down to the beach below,
and there it was
. The concrete face of the bunker, complete with a sturdy-looking steel door. At the top of the door was a small window opening, and at
the bottom, reclining against it, were Sam and Jason. They scrambled to Their feet when They saw me, and Jason dropped a glowing ember to the sand, crushing it with his heel.

“Oh!” he said. “It's just the Worm. Why are you here?”

I thought quickly. “Mr. Zimmerman sent me to find a hammer. He said there were lots of tools in there.” I pointed at the bunker.

Sam moved to the door and got up on his toes to peer through the opening.

“He's crazy. There's nothing in there but a bunch of old junk. See for yourself.”

I joined him, standing up the same way, but I would have needed foot-long toes to get me up that high.

“Slide over,” Sam told me, yanking on the metal handle. He pried the heavy door open a couple of inches, then kept pulling with all his might until it opened all the way.

“See? Nothing but junk.”

He was right. Dusty boxes and miscellaneous debris were everywhere. It wasn't at all how I'd pictured it. I wanted ancient weapons of mass destruction swarming with spiders and rats and hermit crabs, but it looked just like somebody's basement. It had that moldy basement fragrance, too.

But since beggars can't be choosers and the temptation was too hard to resist, I saw my chance and I took it.

“Hey!” I cried. “What's that over there? Could those be nudie magazines?”

“Where?” they both cried.

“All the way in the back!” I pointed into the gloom. “The very back!”

It worked like a charm. They buzzed inside, knocking each other out of the way, while I, quicker than quick-silver,
hurled myself against the door and slammed it shut. My faithful walking stick I jammed sideways through the handle, jiggling it a bit to test its durability. It would hold.

I let out a triumphant “Ha-ha!” as a muscular arm swung out of the window and made a grab for my hair. But thanks to my reduced stature and expert ducking reflexes, I managed to escape unscathed. Then an evil voice growled, “You're dead, Worm,” which sent a chill down my spine and me sprinting up the side of the dune. I retraced my steps through the forest at a brisk canter to where I'd left the wheelbarrow, and that's where it hit me. Reality, I mean.

What have I done? When They get out, They're going to kill me!

I steered the wheelbarrow back into camp like a lunatic gardener, and in no time flat, I made it all the way to Mr. Zimmerman's construction site. My chest was heaving. I leaned against the building, trying to catch my breath.

The whole time I'd thought of nothing but sweet revenge, and I cursed myself now for forgetting that after revenge comes
retaliation
. When Sam and Jason got out, my life would be worth less than a plug nickel. I swore under my breath. Then I sensed a couple of bulging eyes on me. I turned around.

“Where's the wood, George?” Mr. Zimmerman had appeared out of nowhere wearing a tool belt of all things. A rather big tool belt. He led me to where a slab of particleboard lay balanced atop two rusty, yellow garbage cans.

“I got lost,” I told him, hoping he wouldn't send me back out to have another go at it. There could be no more venturing around camp for me. Not without a great big bodyguard in attendance. I held my breath.

“You were gone so long I thought you'd decided to
chop down a tree or something. Well, we'll let it go for now. It's close to lunchtime.”

I released my breath and felt my heart rate return to normal. I would at least have a last meal before being cut down in my prime.

“Take a look at this, George!” Mr. Zimmerman slid the board off the cans. “Can you tell what this is?”

The wood had been cut, and pretty accurately to-scale from what I could tell, in the shape of a World War II submarine. Mr. Z was looking at me brightly, waiting for my answer, altogether too pleased with himself. I studied the thing from all angles, then shook my head slowly.

“Is it a tank?” The fear of death had taken all the sunshine out of my disposition, and I was in no mood to make anyone happy.

“No, no!” he bleated. “It's a submarine!” He came over to join me in my scrutiny of the war vessel. “See the outline of the hull? And the periscope here?”

“Oh,
now
I see,” I said in an unconvinced way. “That's a periscope there!” You could almost hear the steam fizzle out of his engine.

“A tank? Does it really look like a tank?” He held his head to one side, doubting his own craftsmanship. Then he shook it. “Well, perhaps the paint will make a difference.”

He tossed a package of sandpaper at me, which landed on my toe. “Let's give the edges a good sanding before we break for lunch. We can't have the stage crew getting splinters from it this afternoon.”

I took a square out of the package and started doing what he'd started doing, that is rubbing it back and forth along the rough lines of the wood. But not as deliberately as he or as meticulously, because I knew that my ex–best friend would be handling this prop soon, and while a
flesh wound and a wound of the spirit were not exactly the same thing, if I could give Anita a wound of
any
kind, then that timeless proverb “What Goeth Around Cometh Around” might hit home to her in a very personal and meaningful way.

Which would, at least, give me
something
to look forward to.

I ate very little for lunch, which was kind of a shame because the chef had prepared rotini and meat sauce, a personal favorite of mine, and what I managed to chew, I consumed in a moody silence. My sidekick, Mr. Zimmerman, had brought his Follies paperwork to the table, and he was so involved with his writing that he didn't seem to notice my air of despondency no matter how hard I sighed. He'd write something he thought terrific, then make me read it, convinced somehow that I cared. It was all I could do to critique his work honestly, and with his spirits as high as they were, I think my sarcasm was lost on him.

When the man finally broke into song, or rather an obnoxious hum, I turned away from him on the bench and laid my head on the table. I wished now that he had just sent me home. Sure I would have been grounded, but a good grounding sounded kind of peaceful to me now. Just me, alone in my room with nothing but my thoughts
and my C drive. No worries. No camp. No Bruise Brothers on the warpath.

Psychiatric treatment didn't sound so bad either. I pictured a kind, grandfatherly, Freud-like doctor “ahem-ing” a lot and telling me mine was an interesting case. I would invent some really good problems. Instead of this. This was slow death!

I peered at the Bruise Brothers' table, its top commanding officers conspicuous in Their absence. The three present seemed happy enough, shoveling in Their food with the same slavering gusto I'd pictured Them devouring Mr. Z with only hours before. I wondered what They thought of Sam's and Jason's absence, then decided probably not much. Thinking wasn't one of Their usual habits.

At this point, the lights in the mess hall began blinking rapidly and the noise died away at once.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Harris announced, “may I have your attention please.” I gave him mine, hoping the old gentleman would explain why he'd felt compelled to wear a dress shirt and bow tie with his blue jeans and hiking boots. It was beyond me. “We have become aware of a serious problem here at camp.”

Suddenly, he looked right at me.
They found me out
, I thought.
Sam and Jason got loose and told on me!
Something I was sure They'd never do, since it would stymie Their chances of killing me later. But as Mr. Harris went on, it seemed the problem had nothing to do with me.

“We have just received word from the National Hurricane Center, and it appears …” he paused, as if searching for the right words. “It appears that we are right now in the direct path of a category-two hurricane.”

Nothing like breaking it to us gently
, I thought. There was dead silence, until Mr. Harris cleared his throat.

“Instead of hitting the coastline of North Carolina as was originally forecast, Tropical Storm Judith has made a slight turn and upgraded herself in the process to hurricane status. Now, if she continues on her present course at her present rate of speed … Well, ladies and gentlemen”—here Mr. Harris actually chuckled—“needless to say, by tomorrow evening we'll all wish we were someplace else.”

An anxious murmur rose from the crowd. Mr. Harris held up his hand.

“So, what does this mean to you, folks? It means that unless Hurricane Judith changes course dramatically over the next few hours, we will evacuate by bus at eight o'clock tomorrow morning, which should give us plenty of time before the storm hits, and—” The lights started blinking again, because a cheer had exploded in the room. He continued much louder. “And that means a change in schedule. We want you to get as much work done in your science packets today as possible. After lunch you are to meet with your team leaders and work until the dinner break. Immediately after dinner we'll have our Scavenger Hunt, and that will be it. Tonight we'll pack our things, and tomorrow morning we'll head for home.”